Blood Runs Thicker than Water
by owlsarelovely
Summary: Draco's made a very big mistake that only he can fix. One shot.


_"Soon we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy."  
_

_— Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

Draco waited outside the cellar, his breathing echoing down the narrow hallway. He had been waiting for little over an hour now, her bloodcurdling screams still ringing through his ears.

The iron gate creaked open and Lucius stepped out of the shadows, his lips pressed into a thin line. Not a good sign.

"It appears that you were indeed right. The girl has proven to be more, perhaps, resilient than expected."

"I did warn you," he replied curtly.

His father adjusted his robes slightly, and that was when Draco saw the blood, covering the whole right side of his cape. Lucius caught where his son was looking and smiled nastily. "Ah, yes," he said softly, lifting the cape higher for a better view. "Not quite as filthy as expected, is it?"

Draco glanced up at the gate instead, eyes searching through the shadows in the unlikely occurrence that he would be able to spot her from here. "So she refused to talk, did she? I'm guessing you sent me down here because of no other alternative?"

Lucius's smile dropped, his steely eyes hardened. "Just do what needs to be done," he hissed. "Is that clear?"

Draco returned his gaze with a determined glint of his own. "Perfectly." Pulling the gate open, he stepped carefully past Lucius and into the dark holding cell. When the gate shut again, he turned to look at his father through the bars.

"Don't fail, Draco," Lucius said, and then he was gone.

Draco waited for several seconds, just to make sure his father would not be returning, and then rested his forehead against the cool iron. He breathed in. Then out. In. Out. Then he straightened up, turned, jaw set, and walked to the very back of the cellar.

It did not take long to spot her.

She was slumped against the wall, head turned away from him and facing the far wall. Both hands were bound tightly, the rope having cut into her skin, breaking the flesh, and creating two identical angry rings of scarlet around her wrists. Her clothes were dirty and ripped and in some places drenched with blood. Her lip was busted and a deep cut ran down the length of her cheek right down to her jaw, that side of her face looking like somebody had painted it in red. He knew that it would scar, and wondered who did it. All day, he had watched Death Eater after Death Eater enter her cell, would hear her scream until her voice was hoarse.

And it was all because of him. She would not be here if he hadn't betrayed them all.

When he'd first shown up in Grimmauld Place, claiming to have switched sides, almost everybody had wanted to either use him as bait or kill him on the spot. Only she was the voice of reason, and it was she who persuaded the lot, saying that having someone who knew the inner workings of a Death Eater was an advantage.

Only it would not be. He had almost shouted at her, wanting to know why she had to be so goddamn caring, why she had to always believe the best in everybody. Because it was a war. He'd went to the Order that night thinking none of them would be stupid enough to emit him in. He'd thought he was walking to his death. But no. She had to go and fuck it all up with her goodness.

At first he'd been so mad at her, doing everything he could to make her hate him. She'd ignored him at first. For months, to be exact. Then one day in the kitchen, he was in the middle of insulting house-elves and comparing their looks to hers, when she'd rounded on him and aimed a plate at his head.

It all seemed like such a long time ago now.

"Granger," he said evenly. She did not answer, or even look for that matter.

He thought back to a time when she would always respond to him. After the plate incident, every time he said her name she would turn and always, always, would have one of her smart arse replies ready for him. Because if she ignored his taunts then that would mean that he'd won, and she could not have that. Sure, she tried ignoring him to set an example for the rest of her idiotic friends, but apparently she could only do that after so long in his company until the need to prove him wrong overcame her.

"Granger," he tried again, louder. "What did they do?"

No reply.

He gritted his teeth. "Answer me or I swear I'll hurt you."

She snorted at that, but it brought on a fit of coughs, blood bubbling from her mouth and nose as she fell forward, her broken breaths echoing terribly around them. He waited patiently the two minutes it took for her to sit up again. "You really think your threats scare me?" Hermione said at last, voice raspy and weak. She turned her head, for the first time looking him solidly in the eye. "Do your worst."

"For Christ's sake, Granger," he snarled, kneeling down in front of her. "Stop being so fucking righteous. All they want is Potter and Weasley's location."

"Unlike some, I'm not a traitor," she hissed venomously.

"Oh, but you are. You see," he smirked and leaned in, "you're the one who brought in the traitor."

She stared mutely back, indifferent, but Draco caught the flicker of something shift in her eyes.

He recalled how long it had taken him to gain an understanding with her. How long it had taken for the insults to turn meaningless to turn playful. How long it'd taken to gain her friendship. He recalled the nights spent in the kitchen, when everyone else had gone to bed leaving only him and Hermione up. Somehow, they always were the last ones asleep. He remembered the first time they'd stayed up together, talking about everything. It took six months of those nights for him to win her trust. Years after that to develop into something more.

Having her look at him now so detachedly, after all the time it had taken, after all she'd told him and all the stolen kisses, bothered him more than he cared to admit. Because all along he had known it would come down to this.

"You should have let them kill me," he said. "Why didn't you let them?"

She was silent for what felt like eternity. "Because," she said at last, "I thought maybe there was some good in you. I thought maybe you could be better, if only we gave you the chance."

He did not know what to say to that, so instead said seriously, "You know they're going to kill you."

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I do."

Suddenly, he was irritated. "And you're just going to sit there? No plan?"

"What do you want from me, Malfoy?" The use of his last name only bugged him even more. "You put me in here, now you're angry because I'm not trying to get out?"

He bit back the retort, because now was not the time for one of their arguments. It was true what she was saying. He didn't know what he was doing. Had no right to be irritated at her either, because she had nowhere to run anyway.

"Besides," she said after another pause, "I'm not going anywhere."

At first he thought she was talking about how there were Death Eaters just on the floor above them, then he realised she was not looking at him but at her stomach, where her hands had been resting. Now that he was closer, Draco saw what he'd missed upon first-glance.

Feeling sick, he gently grasped her tied up wrists, seeing her hands cupping a pool of blood, and lifted them away from her belly. The blood that was steadily oozing from her came out almost black. He lifted up her shirt, revealing a gaping wound. How deep he could not see.

"Fuck," he swore, and he took off his cloak, folded it, and pressed it to her stomach.

"Is it bad?" she asked wearily, head tilted up to the ceiling.

"No, it's actually fine," he lied.

She laughed, but again, started coughing violently. "You were always such a weakling when it came to blood," she said brokenly. "Remember that time I was showing you how to make dinner with a knife, and you cut your finger?" She smiled reminiscently. "You went on about it for days like you'd just came out of battle."

The memory made him close his eyes. And slowly his legs gave way, from either kneeling too long or from the emotion that suddenly washed over him, he did not know. His knees connected hard with the stony floor and he bent forward, unable to stem the way his breathing had quickened, unable to hold back the tremors of his body. Because it was all too much. This was not what was supposed to happen. He was to join the Order, was then to make himself get trusted, even if it took years, then he was to bring one back to the Manor, for either questioning, to lure Potter, or to destroy him by killing yet someone else he loved. It was not supposed to be this hard. It was not supposed to hurt. But Hermione was in front of him, bleeding and broken and there was nothing he could do.

Her bounded hands patted his back soothingly. "I know." Her voice was thick. "You're sorry."

He was. He was so sorry he couldn't be brave like her. So sorry he did this to her. To them all. He concentrated on breathing. In. And then out. In, out.

"Did you ever love me?" she implored softly, as if afraid to ask.

Draco looked up, their eyes locking, and he could not think having ever seen hers so empty.

He considered lying to her, thinking perhaps it would make it less painful for them both. But he found actually putting said thought into action proved harder than planned. He couldn't lie to her. Not when she was like this, and wordlessly, he nodded.

Hermione breathed out unevenly. "Then I need you to do this for me. I'm going to die here, but I don't want it to be by Lucius or Bellatrix or any of them." She swallowed. "I want you to do it."

"No –"

"It's going to happen, Draco. I'm not getting any better." His eyes fell to her belly instinctively. "And I'm not telling them anything. So the last thing I want is for them to use me to get to Harry. They'll probably think of the most gruesome way to kill me. Mutilate my body and send it to the Order piece by piece or something, I don't know. Hang me from a tree, perhaps. So just… do this for me." Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

He closed his eyes once more and looked away, hating that even in her last moments the silly witch was right. He had to do this for her, it was the least he could do. As his father had said, do what needs to be done. This was what needed to be done.

But he could not let the agreement slip past his lips. It was too hard to say it. So he nodded. One inch up, one inch down. A simple enough movement, but it made his throat constrict, made his stomach threaten to bring up his last meal.

Wounding his hand through her blood soaked hair, he kissed her forehead, wishing he could smell her one last time without the metallic and rotten scent in the air.

Then, Draco stood up, surprised that he could even stand at all, and moved his hand into his pocket, her gaze following his movements the whole time. He saw fear there. Not fear because she was about to die, but fear for Potter. For Weasley. Because what would they do now without her?

"Look away," he instructed. And she did, turning her head to the side, brown eyes falling shut.

Shaking, he pointed his wand at her face. He thought there would be more to it, that the world would turn upside down, for there to be some sort of change in the universe. That the whole Order would burst through the cellar in time to stop him. But nothing. Nothing at all to suggest he was about to take the life from the girl who always had a retort ready for him, who spent endless nights awake when he could not sleep, who taught him how to cook the Muggle way. From the girl who saw some redemption in him when no one else could.

He turned his face away on the green flash that erupted from his wand, taking the life away from the girl who'd believed he could be better, when he was not.

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**Can you tell I'm a sucker for sad endings? Review/comment/yell at me/cry to me/insult me/praise me, whatever. I love reading them all. **

**I'm considering adding a prequel to this, but I don't know. Yes? No? Let me know :)**


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